


and speak each other in passing

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst & Discomfort, As A Treat!, Gay Bar, Little A Gay Twink Backstory, London Social Season, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Missed Connections, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22631440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Four times Thomas Barrow didn't meet Richard Ellis.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Richard Ellis
Comments: 19
Kudos: 70





	and speak each other in passing

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by various discussions had with various people, namely DarthNickels, likehandlingroses, and wirkmood. title from [henry wadsworth longfellow's tales of a wayside inn](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Tales_of_a_Wayside_Inn/Part_Third/The_Theologian%27s_Tale/Elizabeth#IV), because i really couldn't have gone with anything else. originally i went with four times instead of five to go for the double-the-word-count-each-time device but that.... didn't end up happening precisely as i'd have liked. womp womp.
> 
>  **content notes:** sex & war violence.

**1911**

"Why would I be interested in a footman?"

"Well, you are one for a start."

"Seems like a bloody good reason not to be."

Mr Fuller laughs; teasing, he elbows him in the arm.

"You'd get on with him, I reckon, he's got as sharp a tongue as you do — can't you admit he's handsome, Thomas?"

"As you've said so many times," he says curtly, "he's a footman."

"And?"

"Can't have an ugly footman, can you?" But curiosity gets the better of him. "Which one of 'em is he?" 

The chaps from the Palace all blend in with each other whether or not they've got the state livery on. Their Majesties prefer them identical, he supposes.

Or, whoever hires them for Their Majesties does. Thomas doubts they've got anything to do with the process themselves.

Mr Fuller's not an idiot, so he doesn't point.

"Brown hair. About as tall as you are, maybe an inch or so more."

"You just described a third of all the domestics in bloody England."

Thomas lights a cigarette, then offers him one. 

It's accepted.

Some of the lot are handsome, he'll give him that, but he can only make out the face of one or two of them, and nobody stands out.

Besides…

"I don't shag servants."

"No?"

He says it like Thomas couldn't possibly be shagging anyone else.

Joke's on him. _He's_ never had a Duke.

"Don't have to."

"Who _are_ you shagging, then?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

**1912**

The station's a madhouse. 

"Could've sent us to Ripon for this," Thomas says. "It's a waste of time coming all the way down here."

Not that he'd have minded having a couple of extra hours to himself on any other day, but…

"Oh, Mr Carson said Her Ladyship told him this shop…"

What an idiot.

Thomas lets him keep talking. Easy enough to ignore it in all the hustle and bustle.

If only he could get away with ditching him… he'll have to think about it. Maybe next time. Can't use the poor little farmboy lost in the city excuse; he'd only get scolded for letting him out of his sight.

Because he needs to be minded like he's a child.

This would be equally more efficient if Thomas could do this on his own — he does everything else that way, after all. William's only here to watch and learn.

Not that he will anytime soon. He doesn't seem bloody capable of it.

Lo and behold, he's started woolgathering already.

"William," Thomas calls back, "we don't have all day."

He's gotten distracted watching one of several tearful departures happening on the platform. People do love to get in the way for that sort of thing, like no one else's time or space matters because they've got _feelings._

"...Mum, come on, now, it won't be so long – "

"They never do let you away from that place – "

It's a young man about their age and a woman who is evidently his mother.

No one ought to behave like that in public.

"I've told you I could get a position closer to home, bound to be plenty of great houses in Yorkshire needing footmen about – "

"And leave the Royal Household! Don't frighten your poor mother with such talk – "

Oh, so _that's_ why William's chosen this happy little family in particular.

"I suppose your own mother would be proud to know you were shirking your duties in your first week on the job," Thomas says flatly.

Because he doesn't fucking shut up about her.

William jumps.

"Sorry," he says. 

They move along. 

Thomas doesn't miss the way he keeps looking over his shoulder.

**1916**

"Corporal! Corporal!"

These ones are Yorks.

"It's my mate," a jerk of the head, "he were walking wounded but he ent walking no longer – "

That's an accurate assessment.

The man's face is covered in blood, hair matted under a soaked bandage; he's dead weight — held by the one who spoke, who's got a hasty field dressing done up over his forearm (Thomas can tell with one glance it's tight enough to do more harm in the long run so far as _keeping his arm_ is concerned, but he needs to prioritize the men who've not been treated at all before fixing up the ones who've been treated badly), and another, whose kit is mucked with blood and dirt but whose injury is indeterminable. He's crying. 

Thomas grabs walking-no-longer's wrist.

"Harley!"

"Yes, Corporal!"

"Have we got any stretchers free?"

"Haven't for hours," Harley calls back.

He shouldn't have bothered to ask.

His pulse is strong, given the circumstances, but he's only got a fighting chance if they get him further behind the lines.

Head injuries are temperamental.

"He'll live if you get him on your back," Thomas says briskly. "Otherwise," abandon him and "keep moving."

"We're not leavin' him."

Not his problem. Not when there's an endless stream of men coming through the post who might be able to make it on their own. Not when he can't hear himself bloody think through all the shelling; not when he's glad for it, because if he starts to bloody _think_ he'll go into fucking shock.

"Carry him yourself, then."

He leaves them — seems like they're going to try, at least — to tend to a man who's just shown up with half of his bloody jaw gone, ignoring the desperation in the voice of the one who was crying, ignoring the bile that rises up in his throat when he for even a split second pays attention to what he's actually saying.

"Come on, Ellis, come on, we'll get you out, come on, love, fuck, fuck, I _need_ you – "

**1924**

_You shouldn't be here,_ he tells himself. _You shouldn't be here._

He's smoked his cigarette down to the stub; he tosses it down, stamps it into the cobblestones, and lights another.

_You wouldn't be so fucking nervous if you weren't here._

His appointment is at nine o'clock the next morning.

_They'll know._

How could they possibly.

Thomas slips from the alleyway through the propped-open backdoor, makes his way through. He got lucky, finding this place. Didn't have to look too hard, not when some men make it so easy to retrace their steps. Bloody idiots. If they're not careful they'll get all the blokes around them arrested.

Wouldn't Carson and the rest of them love _that._ That rubbish he made up about his father is not a lie he desires to get caught in… if he was choosing what lies he wanted to get caught in, that is. 

Answer to that one's easy. None of them.

It's been a while since he's been in a place like this. Lady Rose's season, probably.

_Leave._

They're all the same, really. Dimly lit holes in the wall, full of cigarette smoke, with bad liquor if there is any. This one seems to be dry.

If there's money changing hands, then, it's not for drinks. Hopefully he can avoid that, but it's more difficult these days. Half the time anyone approaches him it's because they think he'll pay. 

He's not young anymore. He's under no illusions.

This place is seedier than he tends to prefer, but beggars can't be choosers.

_Leave._

He hangs back in the shadows and eavesdrops on two men making their way out.

"Come back for good, Mr Cautious?"

"How pleased would you be if I said yes?"

Not every day he hears an accent that rich outside of the North Riding.

"Didn't ask if I _would_ be pleased."

"Didn't see the need."

If there were ever a voice you could hear a smile in… There's a thud, a shake in the wall he's leaning against, when he peers around the corner he sees them kissing, in profile, one pressing the other up against the wall.

He turns back, heart pounding.

He hasn't seen a sight like that in ages.

_Leave._

"Is this where you want me, then," says the York, "here – "

"Cocky bastard – "

Thomas listens to the voice in his head, cutting past them. He doesn't look back until he's three blocks away.

Nine o'clock in the morning.

Maybe the next time he's in London he won't want it anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/)!


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